


A Boston Night

by auberus, Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Highlander: The Series
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe, Crossover, Don’t copy to another site, GFY, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-23 01:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17673923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auberus/pseuds/auberus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri
Summary: Faith tries to steal a wallet from an Immortal, and finds a chance at safety when she's caught.





	A Boston Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbeta'd, unedited, and abandoned.

There's no point in going home. Friday means payday for Faith's stepfather, and while a year ago that would have meant actual food in the apartment, these days it just means that he'll be drinking liquor instead of beer, and will be even more of an asshole than usual. He'll pass out around two, when it will be safe to go home, but until then, Faith is hanging out by the bars downtown, waiting for someone to stumble out so that she can pick their pocket. She's gotten two wallets already, but both belonged to college students who'd blown all their cash on alcohol, so that doesn't really do her any good. Right now she's following a third, with the sort of clothing that makes her hope he'll still have some money on him. When he stops to throw up, she sees her chance and moves in. Two steps and *reach*, and she's past him, ducking around the corner to open it and see what she got.

Haerviu hasn't been in Boston very long, though he's already been warned by his neighbors not to go out after dark - and particularly to avoid this neighborhood. Something about delinquent teens and preteens, and accompanying issues of theft, drugs, and violence. He's assured them he'll be fine, and has been here in daylight already. Volunteering in a public kitchen, and taking a few walks through the streets. The kids mostly ignored him after they decided he wasn't a good mark, and he's decided it's time to see what the nightlife is like.

He's just about to head back to his flat when a girl comes darting around a corner ahead of him, stopping to open the wallet in her hand. Probably one she's just lifted, and Haerviu lets a wry smile cross his face. At least here and now, the laws aren't so stringent as they've been in other places, nor the punishments as draconian if she's caught.

It's only three long strides to be within reach, and he reaches out as he stops, catching her wrist before she can remove the cash in the wallet. "Whoever you stole that from would probably appreciate keeping their cash."

Faith tries to jerk away, but her captor has her wrist in an iron grip that makes her stepfather's seem weak, and he easily sidesteps her attempt to kick him in the shins.

"And I'd appreciate being able to eat tonight," she fires back, still trying to wrench herself free. "Let *go* of me!" She knows it won't do any good, but she can't help fighting to get away.

The girl's stronger than she looks, though certainly not the most surprisingly strong young woman he's met. It's been some time since he's been near a Slayer, but it's hard to forget, and more so when he has a sudden suspicion the girl whose wrist he's holding could well become one. Haerviu keeps his grip on her wrist, and reaches out to pluck the wallet from her other hand. "You don't need to steal someone's wallet to eat." He tucks the wallet into his coat pocket, making a note to return it to the owner in the morning. "There's a late-night pub a couple blocks from here. I know the cook, she makes good food. I'll buy you dinner."

Convincing teens that he doesn't want sexual favors in return has been a recurrent issue when he does this sort of charity work, but not impossible. Harder, perhaps, at times, particularly since much of western European culture started to demonize sex, but he's managed.

"No, thanks," Faith says bitterly. "If that's what you're looking for, the working girls are three blocks that way." She tries to kick him again, but he's faster than she is, and apparently expecting it. "Let go of me," she demands again. She'd threaten to scream, but in this area it won't do any good, and she knows it. She's frustrated enough that tears are threatening, but she refuses to give him the satisfaction she denies her stepfather.

Sighing, Haerviu shakes his head. "I don't want that. Though if you'd rather pay for your meal, I'm sure Cait wouldn't mind having a hand with cleaning up after closing. And she'll won't tolerate anyone harassing any of her workers, permanent or otherwise, in her pub." He's known Cait for longer than she's owned the pub, and though she hasn't had to personally throw anyone out in years, he's sure she's still capable of it. The white hair and grandmotherly face tends to make people underestimate her.

Faith looks at him narrow-eyed for a long moment, trying to size him up. Finally she nods reluctantly. If they're in public, he won't be able to try anything, and she can always say she has to use the bathroom and then duck out the back - or the window.

"Fine. If you try anything, though, I'll make you sorry you did," she says fiercely. She had the last guy who'd done something like that, and while this one was faster and stronger, it didn't mean that she wouldn't try. She jerks her wrist free - this time he lets her - and pulls her jacket more closely around herself, ducking her head forward so that her hair covers her still healing black eye. If this guy isn't a creep, he's probably a do gooder, and the last thing she needs is social services coming around. They won't do anything to help, and they will make her stepfather's temper worse.

"Good." Haerviu nods, nodding toward the pub before he starts walking. "I wouldn't expect anything less." He watches her duck forward out of the corner of his eye, and it doesn't take even the sort of trained eye he has for observation to know she's hiding something. The way she hunches in on herself makes him think she expects violence, and he presses his lips together a moment. "Do you have someplace safe to sleep tonight?"

He can always ask Cait if she's willing to risk a stray teenager on her couch, but he hopes the girl does have someplace safe. The modern world doesn't make it easy to provide shelter to kids at risk without potentially ending up in trouble. Especially not more than a night or two, unless it's an actual organization.

"I'll be fine." As long as she doesn't go home too early, and gets out before her stepfather wakes up. "I can take care of myself. And if he's not passed out, I know a couple abandoned buildings that are okay to crash in." She's not sure why she added that last bit. Maybe because he's looking at her without pity or that weird expression men get when they want something and are trying to hide it. She ignores the little voice in her head that always hopes that maybe she's found someone who can help her get away, and forces a smile. "I'm kidding. I'll be fine. Five by five."

Haerviu is silent a moment, running possibilities through his head before he digs into his pocket, pulling out a business card which has his current address on it, and a phone number. Along with a name, one that isn't the lease-holding name. "If you need a place to stay, you can call me. Or go to the flat above the pub, and tell Cait that Jehan sent you. She has a couch, and it wouldn't be the first time she's had to shelter a guest." Of course, half her guests hiding from someone aren't exactly people he would want an impressionable young woman to meet, but he hopes most of Cait's old friends are long since dead or safely retired in countries with no extradition.

Faith hesitates, but in the end she reaches out and takes the card, tucking it into the pocket of her jeans.

"Thanks." She hasn't said that and meant it in a long time, but to her suprise, she finds that she does this time. Most people only offer help on their terms, and act like being fourteen means that she can't make her own decisions and doesn't know what she needs. Her smile is smaller this time, but much more genuine. She doesn't think she'll ever call him, but it's nice to know that she could.

* * *

Faith ducks, and the beer bottle smashes into the doorframe above her head and shatters, showering her with shards of glass. She's already bleeding from a split lip, and her right eye is starting to swell. She's not even sure what set her stepfather off this time. He's been yelling at her for coming home late, but he usually doesn't care if she comes home at all.

He starts towards her, hand raised, and catches her by the arm as she tries to slip past him. He backhands her hard across the face, then punches her in the ribs, and she knows with total certainty that if she doesn't get away, he'll beat her to death. Desperation gives her a strength she didn't know she had, and she punches him back as hard as she can, and follows it with a kick to the groin.

He doubles over, and she wrenches free, running blindly for the front door. She can hear him as she runs, calling after her, telling her never to come back. She doesn't even pause - just runs down the stairs two at a time, and out into the night.

It's cold out, too cold for her old army jacket, and Faith huddles into it as she makes her way down the street towards the empty building she's been using to crash in on the bad nights. Except that it's occupied, a group of vacant-eyed junkies looking up at her as she enters, and she turns around and walks away.

Every building is like that, the street people moving inside for the night as the cold sets in, and she's not willing to sleep around any of them. She ends up huddled in a doorway, hands tucked into her armpits for warmth. It's not enough to keep her fingers from going numb, though, so she jams them into the pockets of her jeans - and pulls out a piece of paper.

Her first thought is that it's money, and when it turns out to be a business card, she nearly cries with frustration and fear and disappointment. She starts to ball it up and toss it, but the name on it catches her eye, and the memory of a night two weeks back floats to the surface. She'd slept warm that night, curled up on Jehan's friend's couch, and neither of them had ever asked anything in return.

It's too late to just show up on someone's doorstep - but maybe it's not too late for a phone call. She argues with herself for twenty minutes, and in the end, cold and hunger beat her pride. There's a payphone a block away, and she fumbles the last few coins she has into the slot and dials. She clings to the phone like the lifeline it is, and listens to it ring on the other end, hoping against hope that Jehan will pick up.

"Jehan Montjoye." Haerviu's words are tinged with a hint of French heritage, pulled out of sleep as he is, softening the name. Reusing the alias is probably not the best thing he's done, but it makes it simpler to explain away the accent that creeps out when he's tired, particularly since he so often is, with his current work. "Maison des enfants errants, where, who, and how soon?"

He assumes that whoever is calling this late at night, on this phone line, is one of the teens he's given his business card to, so they have someone to turn to when they need to. For whatever reason they need somewhere that isn't the usual roof over their head.

Faith almost hangs up. For a long few seconds, she doesn't know what to say. She settles on a tentative 'hello'. Her French is just good enough to let her identify the language the man on the other end of the line had spoken, but she can't translate it. She's not even sure she has the right number -- the voice is similar, but she can't be certain it's the same guy. "Um -- I think you gave me a card a couple weeks ago?"

Haerviu swings his feet around so he's sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing sleep out of his eyes with his free hand. He recognizes the voice, even if Faith might not recognize him. "I did, Faith. Do you need a place to stay? I can come pick you up, or I can call Cait and let her know you'll be there shortly. Where are you, and do you need any medical attention, or something to eat?"

"I'm about a block from where we met." Faith leans her cheek against the cold glass of the phone booth. It seems to help the ache a little -- or maybe it just numbs it. "I'm okay, but -- can you come and get me?" She hates asking, hates needing to ask -- she can take care of herself -- but it's cold, and her head hurts, and she just wants one night where she doesn't have to worry about the immediate and can actually let herself sleep for once. "Just for the one night?" She'll figure something out in the morning, but it's too late for picking pockets tonight, and she hurts, and she's so freaking tired she can barely stand it.

"For as long as you need," Haerviu reassures her, reaching for his jeans, tucking the phone between his shoulder and his ear so he has both hands free to pull them on. "I'll be there in ten minutes." He's not entirely sure she's alright, but he knows she won't tell him otherwise unless she's badly injured enough to notice that fact. A trait he finds frustrating even in those who recover from their injuries faster than she does. "Will you be ok for that long? If not, head for Cait's so you keep moving, and I'll pick you up along the way there."

"I'll be fine," Faith assures him. She's taken a beating before, and always survived. This one had been the worst, but that didn't make it anything new.

"Then I will pick you up where you are." He knows where the payphone that she's calling from is, with the reference she'd given him, and he grabs the shirt from yesterday where it's folded over the back of a chair. "See you in ten minutes, Faith." Haerviu's a bit reluctant to hang up, but he's running out her coinage, and it'll cut off on it's own when she's run out of time paid.

Pulling the shirt on over his head, he grabs socks from his drawer, and heads for the door. It's a moment to pull on outerwear, the woolen coat a bit dated, but warm, and to grab an extra jacket for Faith, just in case. His car starts easier than he'd hoped, and he makes the drive in as short a time as he promised, pulling up to the curb next to the pay-phone and unlocking the doors for Faith to get in.

She ducks inside, and tries not to relax all over when the warmth from the heater hits her. "Thanks," she mutters, looking down at her feet. "It really is just for one night, I promise." She doesn't like asking anyone for help. Aside from the dangers of revealing her vulnerabilities, it's kind of pathetic, having to depend on someone like that.

Haerviu nods, not pushing the fact that she can always stay longer. Pushing now could well push her away, and he wants her to always know she has some place safe to go. "Do you want something to eat now, or just breakfast? I do insist you eat something before you leave in the morning, so I know you had at least one good meal."

Faith shakes her head. She just wants to go to sleep. Besides, the less she owes anyone, the better. "Breakfast is cool. I'm really tired right now, though." She also has a splitting headache, and what feels like it might be a cracked rib. At least she won't hurt while she's asleep.

Glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, Haerviu takes in the evidence - barely visible in the intermittent glare of the streetlights - of injuries, and makes a mental note to check her for a concussion before he lets her sleep. Better for her to be a bit upset at him over that then slip into a coma because he didn't bother to check.

"Humor me, and let me check for any injuries that might need medical attention? Particularly a concussion? I won't take you to emergency if you don't want me to, but I've had some experience with first aid beyond just bandages and topical antibiotics."

Battlefields were nasty places to be, and he'd often had to help with the wounded, whatever capacity he'd originally been there in. It makes it easier to get teens to get their own injuries tended to when he could patch them up himself, rather than taking them to a hospital, where they usually didn't want to go.

"Yeah, okay," Faith says after a moment's hesitation. "What, were you a soldier or something?" Something about the way he carries himself reminds her of David Harlow, who'd left to join the Marines and came back to visit his mother upstairs a little tougher, a little quieter, a little more watchful than most people.

"Or something." Haerviu lets a wry smile cross his face. "Let's just say I don't care to leave someone potentially injured if I can do something to help." Soldier, and more, though his most recent battlefield had involved being a soldier. If only because it had seemed a good idea at the time; a lifetime spent with one of his more military-minded old friends had, on the balance, affected his thinking.

"I'm going to be okay. Seriously," Faith assures him. "I'm not dying or anything." Just aching all over, and looking forward to curling up into a ball until she stops hurting. She'll settle for being able to do it for the rest of the night, though.

"Let's make sure that's going to be the case by morning, too." Haerviu shrugs. "So long as nothing's life-threatening, I'll leave it up to you to take care of it, if you'd rather that."

He hopes she's as well as she thinks she is, but better to make certain than wake to find her dead on his couch. It's never enjoyable to deal with bodies, mortal, Immortal, or otherwise.

"That's fine." Faith closes her eyes and leans her head against the window, letting herself zone out with the sound of the car in her ears, just a little bit, letting herself pretend, for a few minutes that everything's going to be fine from now on.

It's not long back to his flat, and Haerviu parks the car in the same spot he'd pulled out of earlier, turning off the engine. "It's a second-floor walk-up." He grabs the jacket he'd brought along for Faith, and offers it to her. "I know, it's just a quick dash inside, but the cold always feels worse after having a moment to warm up."

Faith almost refuses, but she doesn't want to come across as rude or ungrateful. "Thanks," she says, pulling it on as she gets out of the car. It's significantly warmer than her own, which is a good thing, despite her pride. It really is a short distance from the car to the door, and Faith follows Jehan, grateful to get back inside even with the jacket on.

Haerviu doesn't trust the light in the hallway to reveal sufficient details, and he waits until they're up in his flat, with the brighter lights of his kitchen before he insists on taking a look at Faith's visible injuries. "Just a quick look, check your pupils to make sure they're responding properly, and then I'll pull out the couch." He smiles reassuringly, pulling a small flashlight out of the drawer at the end of the counter which collects odds and ends.

Faith sighs heavily, and fidgets a little bit, but she mostly cooperates as he shines the light in her eyes and has her watch his finger as he moves it back and forth. She sighs again, a little impatiently.

"I really am fine," she tells him.

"So you are." Haerviu chuckles briefly, dropping the flashlight back where it belongs. "Forgive an old soldier his worries for a young friend?" He knows he doesn't look all that old - he'd only been thirty-five when he'd first died - but it's been a long time since he was young, and sometimes he feels it. And sometimes it's easier to play it up, to put mortals at ease.

Faith lifts an eyebrow, then shrugs and nods. "Sorry." She glances around the apartment, trying to think of something to say. "Nice place," is all she finally comes up with. She feels stupid, but then, it is a nice place, neat and warm and welcoming in a way that she's not used to.

An apology is not quite what Haerviu is angling for, and he keeps a worried frown off his face from long practice, shrugging instead, a small smile crossing his face a moment. "Comfortable, at least." He nods to the couch in the main room. "I'll pull out the couch, there are sheets in the hall closet. There are towels in the bathroom cabinet, if you want to get a shower now or in the morning. The door locks for privacy."

"Thanks." Faith stands indecisively still for a minute, then heads for the bathroom. The door does lock, and the towels she finds are big and fluffy, and the thought of being able to take a shower without anyone screaming at her to hurry up is too tempting to pass up. The hot water stings her face, and moving makes her ribs ache, but it's worth it when she steps out, feeling clean and warm and sleepy -- and safe, for the first time in weeks. The thought of putting her own clothes back on makes her cringe, but that's all she has, so she does it anyway, hanging up her towel on the back of the door and stepping out of the bathroom, releasing a cloud of steam into the rest of the apartment.

Haerviu's taken the opportunity provided by Faith being in the bathroom to rummage for something suitably ignored to lend her, if she wants, and leaves the sweatshirt and loose trousers on the couch after pulling it out, along with several folded blankets and sheets. Tacit invitation to use what she wants, and he's retreated to his bedroom, closing the door so she can have some privacy. Something he suspects she's had precious little of, despite the signs of neglect as well as the injuries that speak to abuse.

The clean clothes -- and being left alone -- make Faith feel like all of her strings have been cut at once. She goes back into the bathroom to change into them, then comes back and curls up on the bed, pulling two of the heaviest blankets over her, without bothering to turn off the lights. She's asleep a minute or two after her head touches the pillow.

* * *

Haerviu's habitual quiet in the morning is useful when he has guests on the couch, particularly when they're the sort he thinks will wake up with the slightest sound that catches their attention. It's inevitable that he'll make some noise while preparing breakfast, but he keeps even that to a minimum, slicing fresh herbs for an omelette for himself, and putting the fatty sort of bacon that's all he can easily get here into another pan to cook. More eggs, cinnamon and fresh nutmeg go into a bowl with cream, whisked together for fried bread - he still finds the name of it amusing, and has yet to incorporate it into his usual vocabulary.

At first, Faith isn't sure where she is when she wakes up. Then she moves, and the ache in her ribs comes back to remind her sharply of what happened yesterday -- and to explain why she can actually smell something cooking. She pushes the blankets aside and lifts her head, blinking bleary-eyed at Jehan, who is apparently a morning person. Pushing the blankets the rest of the way off of herself, she gets to her feet, combing her hair back into a ponytail with her fingers and using the rubber band around her wrist to keep it there.

"Hey," she says, nodding at Jehan as she makes her way into the bathroom to splash some water on her face before coming back out. "What are you making?" If she distracts him with questions, he won't start asking awkward ones of his own, like where she's planning on going when she leaves, or what she'll do when she gets there.

"Fried bread, fatty bacon, and an omelette with dill and rosemary." Haerviu nods to the loaf of bread he's sliced for frying. "If you'd dredge that through the batter, the griddle in the center of the stove should be warmed enough now for frying it." He has his hands full between the omelette and the bacon, though he doesn't really have a problem with adding the bread to things, since all of it's prepared before he'd started cooking.

"It being Saturday, and therefor there not being the question of you being late for school, do you have anywhere in particular you need to be this morning? You're welcome to stay if you don't, watch TV, use the computer, or borrow a book off the shelves."

"I might stick around." Faith starts dipping bread into batter, as requested. She doesn't mention that it's been months since she went to school. She doesn't say anything about leaving, either. It's kind of nice, pretending like she belongs here, and she's not willing to give that up quite yet.

Haerviu nods, checking the bacon before adding some butter to the griddle, and uses the spatula to make sure it spreads around. "Bread goes there, give it about two minutes and flip it. Spatulas are in the drawer on your side of the stove." He'll keep an eye on the bread to make sure it doesn't burn, but otherwise he'll leave that to her. Food often tastes better when a person's made it themselves, as one old friend had told him, centuries ago.

Faith nods, imagining that she lives here, that he tells her that every day. "Right on," she says. In her head, she says that every day too. "Breakfast looks good." She knows she can't possibly stay beyond at the latest this afternoon, but at least for a little while, she can imagine that she belongs somewhere, anywhere.

Watching her out of the corner of his eye, Haerviu smiles a bit, and nods, turning his attention back to the omelette and bacon. "I'd appreciate help with the washing up after breakfast, as well. I don't exactly have a dishwasher." His smile widens, slightly apologetic, though he rarely has any regrets at not having the dishwasher. The extra effort to wash the dishes has tended to have a settling effect on teenagers, even when they complain about it. It's a little thing that helps them feel like they're not taking charity, and that they belong.

Faith shrugs. "I wouldn't know what to do with one, man. We didn't have one, and even if we did, we always used paper or plastic. Nothing to clean up that way." Breakfast doesn't just look good - it smells good, and Faith, whose diet for the last week has been peanut butter and saltines, feels her stomach rumble.

Haerviu doesn't use paper and plastic for eating, though it's as much a habit as it is a reaction to the distressing tendency of the modern world toward disposable items - and the parallel idea of disposable people that has been around rather longer. Not something to mention to Faith, for more than one reason. "How well-done do you like your bacon?" he asks instead, as he reaches out to turn the pieces in the pan. "Merely crispy, or slightly blackened?"

"Crisp is good." Faith shifts from foot to foot behind him, wanting to ask questions, but not wanting to pry. She doesn't want to have to stop imagining this is hers a second before she has to.

"Crisp it is, then." A quick poke at the omelette, and he turns slightly so he can indicate one of the other cabinets. "Would you get plates from there, and line one with paper towels for the bacon to drain?" One of the disadvantages of the fatty sort of bacon, though this is one place he'll make an exception to his habitual refusal to use disposable items.

She nods and does as she's been asked - and how nice it is to be *asked* - without comment, putting the lined plate next to the stove. Only then does she break her - admittedly short - silence.

"Thanks for giving me a place to crash last night - and breakfast." She looks at her feet. "Why'd you do it? I mean - you could have taken me to a shelter, or... anything," she finishes lamely. She doesn't want to bring up foster care.

"Shelters aren't always safe, though they like to think they are, and while the government's attempt to help those who've yet to reach the age of legal majority when they don't have a stable or safe place to be is admirable, it's lacking." Haerviu is also old enough to remember when age had little to do with being an adult - a child became an adult when they were able to achieve thier right of passage, regardless of age. The modern insistance that a child became an adult at a certain age had been a long time developing, but it seems it's become harder of late for someone to be accepted as a thinking person before that age, and that he still doesn't like. "The ability to make one's own decisions isn't determined by how long it's been since one was born."

"True," Faith says hopefully. If Jehan feels that way, maybe he'll just let her go, without calling social services, or having her put into a group home. To make the point that she doesn't need him too, she adds, "I've been taking case of myself for years now."

"And even those who take care of themselves quite well sometimes need a little time where they can let someone else take up some of the slack. It's why I gave you my card, so you have that to give you some breathing room when you need it." He gives her a gentle smile before he turns his attention to the food once more, slipping the omelette out of the pan onto another plate. "You might want to turn the bread before it burns."

"Sorry!" Faith flips the bread, wincing. Fortunately, it isn't actually burned. "And I appreciate it. My usual crash pads were full." She needs to find another one, and before dark, too.

"Always. Though there may be times when I've other guests over." Other teens who needed crash space, old friends who were visiting or running from something themselves. A small smile, barely there, crosses his face at that. Perhaps someday he'll introduce Faith to some of those old friends - certainly he can imagine some of them finding common interests with her.

"Well, I appreciate your letting me crash." Faith smiles, a little awkwardly. She's already distracted, trying to figure out where she's going to go tonight. If she gets there early enough, she might be able to stake out one of the buildings she usually uses when she can't go home, but once she does, she won't be able to leave. She won't go to a shelter - pride, and some of the stories she's heard, won't let her make that choice. She doesn't want to wear out her welcome here, just in case she needs to stay again once the weather really turns cold.

"Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?" Haerviu isn't bothered by any of the kids to whom he's given his card staying for a while - though he'll encourage them to find work so they can afford their own flat if they stay more than a couple of months and aren't in school. Although it's sometimes hard for them to find one without a high school diploma, no matter what sort of aptitude they might have for any particular sort of work.

"I'll be all right." One way or another. She's not worried about her ability to stake out a spot - she's strong for a girl, and fast, but more importantly, she's learned to be aggressive, and not to take any crap from anyone just because they're older and bigger. Her dad's face floats up in front of her mind's eye, but she dismisses it angrily. He doesn't count.

Haerviu lets the matter go, lifting the slices of bacon from the pan so they can drain, and nods toward the small table next to the windows that he uses for meals. "Once the bread is done, breakfast should be ready. Would you prefer milk, juice, or water?" He's reaching for glasses as he speaks, glancing over at Faith.

"Juice, I guess." His comment reminds Faith about the bread, which *is* done, and she puts it on the plates, hoping she hasn't burned it. "I'm not keeping you from work or anything, right?"

"I don't work on weekends unless something's gone drastically wrong, and the only plans I had aren't for today." At least, not ones that can't be changed, since his walks about the neighborhood aren't exactly set in stone. So long as he gets out there at least once a week, he can manage to keep up with the kids he's trying to help.

Opening the fridge, he pulls out the jug of orange-tangerine juice, carrying it along with the glasses to the table. "And company takes precedence over a good book." He gives Faith a smile, returning to the kitchen area for utensils and the plates of food.

Faith nods, then smiles her thanks and starts on her breakfast with an enthusiasm only ever seen in teenagers who haven't gotten quite enough to eat. Ten or so bites in, she looks up, swallows, and says, "This is really good."

"Thanks to your assistance." Haerviu shrugs, eating his own food with neat bites and a care that's come from spending entire lifetimes in roles that require utmost attention to his own behavior. He's nearly finished with his omelette when there's a knock on his door, and he frowns slightly, not expecting anyone - either someone unwelcome, or one of his teens is in serious trouble.

"One moment," he calls, before giving Faith an apologetic smile. "Either the local missionaries haven't quite gotten it into their head I've no desire to convert, or someone else is in a bit more trouble than they're able to handle on their own."

Faith nods, gesturing her okay since her mouth is full, but when he's halfway to the door it occurs to her that it might be a social worker, or even her stepdad in a sober mood, and she gets up and slips into the bathroom, where she can see and hear without being seen or heard.

Haerviu pretends not to notice Faith's left the table, waiting a brief moment for her to situate herself before opening the door a fraction, the privacy chain still in place. "Hello. Can I help you?" The two on his doorstep are dressed in the manner of missionaries, although once the woman of the pair starts to speak, he has a suspicion they're not at all missionaries. Not with that cut-crystal accent, and not with what she's saying.

"We're looking for Miss Lehane, we were told we could find her here. I'm Diana Dormer, I work with an organization meant to help young wome...."

"No." Haerviu's tone is one that wouldn't have been out of place when he was a herald delivering the scathing insults his masters paid him to take to their enemies. Cool, polite, but clearly conveying the contempt in which those he's speaking to are held. "I'm afraid you're wasting your time, Ms Dormer. Miss Lehane is not here at the moment, and I can't tell you where she is, nor where she'll be. Do have a good day."

He closes the door firmly in the Watchers' startled faces, throwing the deadbolt with an unmistakable and decisive click. Before leaning his forehead against it, holding back a sigh, though he does close his eyes. He had thought Faith might have the potential to be a Slayer, but he'd hoped not to ever meet Watchers seeking her out on the same assumption.

"What did they want?" Faith asks. She's instinctively wary of anyone who proclaims their intention to help, and that they showed up here, where she's - however temporarily - safe and fed, instead of at her house to actually help, makes her contemptuous as well.

Haerviu holds up his hand, shifting on his feet so he can look through the peep hole at the hallway. The Watchers are still there, though they've moved almost out of view of the door, and he thinks they're arguing. Still, too close to hold a conversation at normal conversational pitch, if they're likely to come listen at his door.

Going to the kitchen sink, he turns on the water, wishing for once that he did have a dishwasher. They could be quite noisy, and would do wonders to keep conversations from being overheard. The water would have to do for now, though.

"Watchers," he says quietly, moving toward the couch where he can sit down, and waving Faith over closer, "are not nearly as altruistic as they'd have you believe at first glance. They'll take in young women who fit a certain set of criteria, and train them to fight, and ultimately, to die. Theoretically, in the service of the greater good, but in the process, they tend to remove any ties to the outside world that those they take in might have."

"And they wanted me?" Faith lets out a breath of laughter. "They should have come two days ago, then." Not that she has any more ties to the world as Jehan means it - less, actually, now that she's been put out - but that they'd wait until she was safe... that tells her everything she needs to know about them. "How did they know where I was? And why me?" The way she sees it, she doesn't owe the world anything, much less her life - and she has a hard time accepting that strangers would want her when her own family didn't.

Watching Faith steadily for a moment, Haerviu sighs, pressing his fingertips to his temples a moment. "To explain that will require you suspend any disbelief you might feel inclined to express. There is more, after all, in this world, than what most of mortal humanity accepts as real."

He looks back at her after glancing down, his gaze direct and expression controlled more than it often is these days. It's a return to the careful diplomacy of lifetimes spent as herald, as ambassador, as spy, and he silently wishes the Watchers and their Council to non-existence for dragging askew the mask of this lifetime as Jehan Montjoye.

Faith shrugs. "I can do that." She's spent more nights than not on the streets this year, and she's seen things that can't be explained by what she's been taught in school or even at home. She's even made friends with a few of the working girls, and been warned to be careful for reasons that most regular adults would laugh at.

"How they knew where you were is simple enough. The Watchers use a tracking spell tuned to those who have the potential to become the Slayer - a young woman, often little more than a girl, who is stronger and faster than any normal human, heals faster, and often has other supernatural benefits meant to aid her in fighting demons and their ilk." Haerviu has only ever met vampires, but he has no doubts about the existence of other demons. It would be difficult not to believe in the supernatural, after all, when one of his closest friends is alive only through the provenance of one such. Though a deity is likely something far different from a demon.

"You're likely one of those potentials, and they like to get their hands on them early, train them and raise them to believe all their life must be focused on this calling, this task. If those they train indeed become the Slayer, they rarely live beyond twenty. I find the entire practice appalling. Fortunately, they no longer kidnap potentials, or I suspect I wouldn't have dissuaded them even for as long as I may have."

"Am I going to have to worry about them kidnapping me?" Faith demands. "Can't I just tell them to go find someone else?"

"They won't listen to you if you do tell them that." Haerviu sighs, a slight grimace crossing his face. "And I don't know if they'll attempt something so radical, although I won't put it past them to find some legal loophole to get you into their custody." He looks over at her, his expression neutral. "What do you want, Faith?"

She hesitates for a moment. Jehan has asked her a question that deserves a serious answer, and some actual thought.

"I don't want to die," she says finally, "but if it's important..." She bites her lip. "It is, isn't it?" Without waiting for an answer, she says, "I don't want to go with them, though. They could have come and gotten me any time in the last year, but they didn't. They waited until I was here, and safe."

"Then you don't have to go with them." Saying that is the easy part. The more difficult part is finding a way to make sure the Watchers can't manage to legally get Faith under their control. "And if you are Called as the Slayer, you don't need the Watchers to train you. And although I shall grant they have one of the best reference libraries in the world concerning the supernatural, and the most experience of any organization in handling such, they're not the only ones who can manage that."

He can train her to fight, though some of his skills are perhaps more than a bit rusty, and with some effort, he can probably find most of the information needed regarding whatever demons she comes across. If, of course, she does become the Slayer, which isn't assured, despite her potential.

"Could you do it?" Faith asks, as casually as she can. If Jehan trains her, she won't have to leave, for a foster home or for the streets. She won't let herself hope that he'll say yes, though. If you don't hope for anything, you can't be disappointed. She'd learned that one early. "My stepdad won't care. I bet he'd give me up in a minute if you asked him."

"Some basics, yes, though my skills are a bit rusty in places. I've a friend who keeps his fighting skills in better shape than I, if he comes to Boston any time in the next few years." Something he can't promise one way or another, with Henry wandering so far and wide. Haerviu thinks his friend has traveled the world over, two or three times in the centuries since they met. "If he does, he'll probably insist I regain the skills I've lost, as well as willing to take on a student. He's quite good at training others, when he puts his mind to it."

He pauses, tilting his head as he thinks over the rest of what Faith's said. "If you want me to be your guardian, I can certainly arrange for the paperwork needed to be done. I won't promise that life will be easy or simple, but I can promise you'll be safe, and not forced to fend for yourself. So long as that's what you want."

Faith nods without a moment's hesitation. "Yeah. It is." She's more relieved than she's ever been in her life, and the words practically tumble out of her mouth. "I won't be any trouble. I can cook, and clean, and I'll be old enough to get a job in a year and a half - sooner, if Cait will let me wait tables for her. I don't go to school, so I can work full time. You won't be sorry, I promise."

"Money isn't a worry, and if you're not in school, you'll still be learning, rather than working." Haerviu meet's Faith's gaze steadily, his tone firm. "I expect you to finish an education, even if it isn't a standard public-school one. What exactly the curriculum is we can discuss later, but going straight for menial work isn't going to get you very far from where you started, and all I've seen makes me think you want out of that sort of life."

Haerviu studies Faith for a moment longer, contemplating his next words. If he's to be her guardian, she needs to know something about the risks he takes every day, that come with being what he is. "There might be times when I leave abruptly, and take a sword with me. Don't follow me, and make sure to lock the dead-bolt and privacy chain behind me. I should return after a few hours, but if I don't, call Cait. She'll be able to tell you what to get out of the flat, and where it'll be safe to go - her place might not always be. At the moment, that's all I'll tell you, and that much for your safety. The rest of the explanation will wait until you've had some training with weapons to defend yourself."

"I'm not a child," Faith says. "I've been sleeping on the street on and off since my mom left two years ago, and nothing's ever happened to me. And it's not like there's much point in an education if I'm going to be dead by twenty anyway." Which sucks, but seven years is a long time, and at least this way she'll die doing something that matters.

"You're not a Slayer yet, and if you aren't Called, then you'll continue to live, and an education is a necessity in the modern world." Haerviu doesn't want Faith to take that fatalistic attitude the Watchers encourage in potential Slayers. "And even if you are Called, that's no reason to expect to die. The Watchers would have you believe you'll die in defense of the world against evil, but that just means you're dead, and someone else is taking on the mantle of Slayer. Fight to live, rather than expecting to die, and you'll be far more effective."

Faith looks down at the floor, then back up at Jehan. "Sorry. You're right." She doesn't want to irritate him. There's nothing keeping him from deciding that she's too much trouble to keep around, especially since she's not sure why he wants her around in the first place. "Are you sure you don't mind? I can go with them if you'd rather, or find somewhere else to go."

"Faith." Haerviu stops, a soft sigh escaping him as he shakes his head. "No, I don't mind, and I'd rather you didn't go with the Watchers, because I haven't trusted them in a very long time. Nor would I expect you to find somewhere else. I've lived a very long time, and very little bothers me, save for someone resigning themselves to being less than they are because they can't see a way out. And a Slayer - or even a potential Slayer - is so much more than a girl slated to die young."

Faith listens to him with a willingness to hear that she hasn't given anyone in a long time - not since last year's English teacher, who'd seemed like he cared until he'd tried to put his hands on her in a way that wasn't at all teacherly. She'd shoved his chair over backwards and run, and hadn't gone back to school since. This is different, though. Jehan has already proven that he can be trusted, and she owes it to him not only to listen but to hear as well.

"All right," she says when he's done, then, almost shyly, "Thank you."

"You're very welcome." Haerviu smiles, and chuckles, before pushing to his feet. "Now, hopefully the Watchers have moved along, and we can turn the water off. I'll talk to a friend of mine down at the courts on Monday, arrange the paperwork for legal guardianship. In the meanwhile, perhaps we ought to purchase you some new clothes and a few other things to get you settled in?"

Books and school supplies can wait until he's established guardianship, and figured out what sort of curriculum would best suit Faith. At the moment, he's thinking something less modern public-school and more medieval nobleman. The physical aspects of it will help if she is Called, and they'll probably help her work out excess energy and frustrations even if she isn't.

Faith's face lights up at the thought of new clothes - her jeans have holes in them, and both shirt and shoes are too small - but then she bites her lip, frowning. "I don't know." She only has seven dollars, and what if this falls apart and she needs to get something to eat? Her stepdad had found her little cache of money that she'd put together from stealing, and she doesn't think Jehan will approve of her getting more. Of course, if this does fall apart, he won't be around to disapprove. "Maybe a shirt?" She should be able to get one at Goodwill and still have a dollar or two left over, just in case.

"Or you can trust me to pay for it, and pick out a small wardrobe." Haerviu had meant what he said earlier about money not being a problem. He doesn't often bother with a persona that accumulates much money, but even a little bit over two millennia builds up to a small fortune, particularly when some of it is in artifacts that have gained in value immeasurably over time. "And some toiletries, at least this shopping trip."

"Okay." Faith smiles at him again. "Thanks." She can't remember the last time someone had bought her clothes. She's made do with hand outs and hand-me-downs for a while now. It had been fine at first, but she's started growing lately, and both shirtsleeves and pants have been getting shorter and shorter. She'll have to remember not to shoplift while she's out with Jehan. He wouldn't like that very much either. "Those Watchers won't be around and waiting to get their hands on me, will they?"

"If they are, they'll find themselves in more trouble than they generally care for. I'm not above having them arrested for harassment - or assault, attempted kidnapping, or whatever charge that seems appropriate at the time - in order to force them to back off." Haerviu's smile is one that would have Cait crowing and calling him a vicious old bastard. "I promised you'd be safe, Faith, and that includes from the Watchers."

* * *

Henry parries the blade that's slashing toward his right side, the blow drawing sparks from the steel as it slides off, his opponent stepping sideways in almost perfect consort with his own movement. He aims his own blow low, toward Haerviu's legs, and brings it up on the backswing, steel singing as it once again crashes together, the blow felt up to his shoulders. He's been in Boston for nearly six months, and he's glad to see Haerviu's regained his ease with neglected skills at combat.

His other student is waiting at the edge of the practice area that's been marked off in the old warehouse, and hopefully taking note of moves and counters as she's supposed to. He hasn't started Faith with proper sparring with a sword, but that only because he's not entirely satisfied with her ability in solo exercises. That it frustrates her, he's well aware of, but with only himself and Haerviu as potential opponents, he wants her to be better than she is - or actually Called as the Slayer, and that he doesn't actually wish on any girl - before he has her face either of them.

Faith fidgets, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she watches her teachers sparring. Once they've finished, Henry will have her doing solo exercises again, despite her insistence that she'll learn better with an actual opponent. It's hard to try some of the moves she's picked up from watching the two of them when practicing on her own. Still, she has to admit that she can see his point. They're both much better than she is, and they spar with edged weapons, which would make it all too easy for a slip on her part to result in serious injury. That she's willing to take the risk seems to make no difference to either of her teachers.

When a slip means Henry has to pull a blow harder than he intended, and wrench the blade around to avoid doing worse than merely breaking at least one of Haerviu's ribs, he takes a step back, raising his off hand to signal a stop. Haerviu grimaces, and nods, moving off to set his sword with care on the table to one side before he does laps to cool down. No matter how much their bodies heal, it's always a good example to do things right.

Henry sets his sword down as well, reaching for a towel to wipe sweat from his face, looking over at Faith. "Your turn, Faith." The sword he has her using is shorter and lighter than the blades he and Haerviu use, better suited for her frame and skill. The balance is slightly different as well, a bit more awkward in his hands, though he's capable of using it - just as she should, eventually, be able to use a sword like his or Haerviu's, if not as well as one made and balanced specifically for her.

Faith sighs and bends over to pick up her sword before heading towards the space Henry has marked off for practice. As she straightens up, though, a wave of dizziness washes over her, and she staggers briefly before it disappates as suddenly as it had come. Shaking her head slightly in an attempt to clear it, she starts the solo exercises Henry has laid out for her, her body following the patterns of movement almost automatically, thanks to repeated practice. She can't help thinking that Henry might be right to have her doing solo exercises: the sword seems lighter than it ever has, and her arms don't tire, so clearly she's getting used to wielding it. She lets herself speed up as she runs through the exercises, which are noticably easier than they were yesterday; maybe she's turned some sort of corner in learning how to use a sword. That's the last conscious thought she has before she lets herself stop thinking, moving by instinct rather than along a learned pattern.

Henry frowns when Faith staggers, taking a step toward her, but stopping when she recovers. He keeps a close eye on her, though, pacing to cool down from his own sparring. She's moving easier than usual, and as she speeds up, faster than he's expecting. It's a jump in her ability, as if some natural talent finally kicked in - or some unnatural talent.

He looks over to meet Haerviu's gaze, no words needing spoken for them both to come to the same conclusion - that what they feared happening had. It's been almost two centuries since Henry's last dealt with a Slayer, and he'd killed more than a few Watchers to get to her so she wouldn't be as alone as they intended she be. His wife had never forgiven his actions, but his daughter had been glad for him at her back for the years she spent fighting the dark.

"Faith." He takes a deep breath, waiting for her to turn to him, contemplating what he's going to do. The Slayer can't simply fight solo, and he's not going to keep her on solo practice now - neither of them can afford that any more.

Faith lowers her sword and turns to Henry, grinning widely. "I think I finally figured it out," she says happily. Then she notices the expression on Henry's face, and on Haerviu's. "What is it? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, you didn't do anything wrong." Henry drops the towel he'd used to wipe his face into the basket under the table. "I've never actually seen what happens when a Slayer is called, only the before and the after. And you can't afford to practice solo anymore."

He picks up his sword again, giving her a brief smile. "And better me than Jehan - he actually can stay dead if something goes wrong."

Faith stares at Henry, too startled at first to entirely take in what he's said. It doesn't quite register until he picks his sword back up and moves towards her; then the realization hits her like a ton of bricks.

"I've been called?" she asks, not sure whether to be glad or horrified. From everything she's learned, being called is basically a death sentence that takes a couple of years to be carried out.

"Yes." Of that much, Henry is certain. He brings his sword up into a guard position. "And don't for a minute think I'm going to let you simply find a death before you've lived. The last Slayer I trained, rather than the parasites who call themselves Watchers, lived to be a mother, and to see her daughter grow into a young woman."

Granted, she'd been all of seventeen when her daughter was born, and a girl could be called a young woman when still barely into her teens, if only by the slimmest of margins, but it had been a feat that had made him quite a target for more than a century. The supernatural world, he suspects, still hasn't forgiven him being such a ferocious defender of the Slayer.

"I thought no Slayer had ever lived past twenty-five," Faith says. "That's what I've always heard, anyway." She brings her own blade up, waiting for Henry to start. At least now she'll be able to focus on her training, rather than her schoolwork. After all, there's little point in studying or applying to colleges when she'll almost certainly be dead before she gets a chance to use her degree.

"My daughter was thirty." Henry moves with his usual speed when sparring with Haerviu, knowing she can keep up with him, his blade flashing toward her shoulder. "The Watchers don't like to mention her."

Mostly because they don't like admitting their techniques don't work as well, nor that having someone at her back she can rely on helps keep the Slayer alive. Of course, they don't like thinking about the parts of the world that aren't exactly normal and mortal, but aren't demons and the ilk. The more fool they for it.

Faith parries the blow automatically, startled all over again by the fact that doing so is more reflex than thought, then aims the counterstroke at Henry's chest. It's reassuring to know that she can't do him any permanent damage. She hasn't had a chance to test her newfound strength yet, but the speed that she's developed in the last ten minutes is enough to give her a serious advantage over pretty much any opponent.

"Thirty's not that much older than twenty-five," she points out. "If I'm going to die that young, there's really no reason for me to keep going to school. It's not like they're going to teach me how to fight there, and I really don't need to know anything else any more."

Henry blocks her blow, and steps forward into her, shoving her back. Sparring is about footwork and movement as much as the weapon. "No learning is worthless." He brings his sword around toward her hip. "I learned three languages, statecraft, diplomacy, battlefield tactics, archery, the sword and the lance before I was your age, and used it all before I was twenty."

Haerviu grimaces in memory of just how well Henry had made use of his education. "To devestating effect, even when he was older. I had not met more dangerous a young king before, save perhaps one young Roman. And Rome had long been dangerous even without kings."

"Yeah, well, I'm not likely to be crowned queen of anything." Faith blocks the slash at her hip and aims a cut of her own at Henry's head. "From what I can tell, the only thing I really need to learn is how to kill things, and you can teach me that. Colleges don't offer Slaying Vampires 101, you know."

Henry's eyes narrow, and he shifts his weight slightly, catching the blow and dropping back to rob it of power and momentum for the backswing before pivoting on his toes and bringing up the pommel of his sword to crack Faith in the chin. He continues forward, bodily slamming into her, free hand coming around to grab her by her hair, ignoring the pulled muscles from long practice.

"Learning how to fight is more than learning how to kill. The Watchers forgot that long ago, or never properly understood it." He shoves away, taking a step back, drawing in a deep breath. "Your lessons outside of weapons do not end with this change, just because you think yourself in no need of anything save what will further your sudden death-wish."

Faith rubs her chin, which is already starting to stop hurting. "It's not a death-wish," she protests. "The better I am at fighting, the better the chances that I'll stay alive. Sitting in a classroom for eight hours a day isn't going to do me any good, either immediately or in the long run. It's not like I plan on not learning anything -- it's that I'd rather learn how to stay alive than how to write an essay."

"If you live as if you expect to die, you will die sooner than if you act as if you expect to live. I know Jehan has told you this. I know I have. You seem to have forgotten that." Henry scowls, running a hand through his hair before he moves toward the table, setting his sword down, and picking up another towel. "And if you have not yet learned that, I think perhaps it would be better to go over your homework before we continue this today."

He looks back at her, his expression uncompromising. "You are not allowed to abandon your school-work - even learning to write an essay - just to throw yourself into battle. It's not worth it."

"So you want me to go on like nothing's happened?" Faith shakes her head. "I can't do that. If I only have a few years left, I want to be able to enjoy them, and I *don't* want to waste them on doing homework." She can't help arguing, though she's fairly sure that she won't win. She's seen that expression on Henry's face before, and it generally means that whoever opposes him is going to lose, big time.

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2011.


End file.
